
Glass IG&&D7) 
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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



EPHEMERA 



75° copies of this book are printed, all on 
Japan paper. 



EPHCMEDA 



GDEER. PD05E P0EN5 
By 

MITCHELL 3. BUCK 



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PHILADELPHIA ■ M6MXVI 
NICHOLAS L 5Q0WN 



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Copyright, 1916 

by 

Nicholas L. Brown 



Printed May, 1916 




JUN I9I9«6 



S>CI.A433432 



EPHEMERA 

Greek Prose Poems 

by 

Mitchell S. Buck 



TABLE 

INTRODUCTION : 9 

SYRINX 

PASTELS OF HELLAS 

foreword: 13 
the shepherd: 15 
IN the forest: 16 
virgin love: 17 

DELPHI: l8 

the friend: 19 

lesbos: 20 

the ragged cloak: 21 

to the aphrodite: 22 

ashes of desire: 23 

phaon: 24 

false dawn : 25 

THE isle: 26 

the votaress: 27 

at the games: 28 

the epicure: 29 

the orgy: 30 

nocturne: 31 

the seeker: 32 

on the agora: 33 

shadow gold : 34 

pan: 35 

circe: 36 

the falling leaves: 37 

LETHE : 38 



LESBIA 

SONGS OF THE HAPPY ISLE 

hymeneal: 41 
advice: 42 
the trees: 43 
song: 44 
dionysia: 45 
penumbra: 46 
ast arte: 47 
the ship: 48 
the city: 49 
the merchant: 50 
the garden: 51 
atropos: 52 
the neophyte: 53 
the perfumes: 54 
iris: 55 
pandemos: 56 
the stranger: 57 
the gifts: 58 
lost love: 59 
the shadow: 60 
the wine: 61 
nocturne: 62 
isis: 63 
vigil: 64 
copper and gold: 65 



INTRODUCTION 

Twenty-five of these pastels, under the title 
of "Syrinx," were published in the spring of 
1914. The others, which make up the present 
volume, have never before appeared in print. 

In contrast to the simpler forms and vistas 
of Syrinx, a new series has been drawn 
from the more complex, more voluptuous, life 
of ^Eolia and the Archipelago. 

On the isles beyond the shores of Hellas, 
many races lived and mingled, rising and 
falling, migrating, building and destroying. 
Perhaps the one direct ideal shining through 
this exotic kaleidoscope was the reflection of 
that idealism of Beauty which transfigured all 
lands and peoples where the influence of the 
Hellenes was felt. 

Decadent and distorted though this may, at 
times, have been, in its true form the influ- 
ence was not without admirable Jesuits — an 
outflow of literature and art which is handed 
down to the modern world as a precious 
heritage — flowers of that clean sensual de- 
light which has been, in all ages, the com- 
panion of Genius and the liberator of the 
Soul. 



SYRINX 



One drowsy day of summer, Syrinx wan- 
dered in the cool depths of the forest. And 
there Pan found her, singing and garlanded 
with flowers. 

— ■ Brown-limbed and supple nymph, all the 
pine-crowned satyrs and the dryads babble 
thy name. Now even Pan himself desires — 
thou art very fair ... I love thee. 

But pale Syrinx only smiled in disdain for 
words too often heard. 

The god's quick eyes darkened. He smiled. 
His ready hand leapt out . . . The frail 
virgin darted away like a shadow among the 
trees and over the fields. . . . 

Her soft lips open to her striving breath, 
her eyes appealing, the nymph slips over the 
flowered bank of a clear stream . . . The 
waters ripple about her thighs. 

— O naiads, help me quickly ! 

Pan reaches out . . . His arms enfold 
a thicket of sighing reeds. 

Later, he culls the swaying reeds to cut 
them in uneven lengths and bind them side 
by side. Then, placing them to his lips, he 
sighs . . . 

The clear notes glide out across the fields. 
Sometimes they are very sad and men who 

*3 



hear them weep ; sometimes they are loud and 
clear and men who hear them laugh and 
sing; sometimes they shrill and men draw 
their cloaks about them, dreaming of singular 
things. 



i4 



THE SHEPHERD 

When it is night, before the moon has risen 
and the skies are spattered thick with stars; 
when, in the distance, all things blend into 
one and the sleeping earth touches the arched 
sky, I stand before my tiny hut and pray. 

Below me on the hillside, their coats glow- 
ing softly in the starlight, lie my sheep. And 
from the trees, the brooks, the grasses, the 
incessant chorus of midsummer nights trills 
through the air. 

Yet I know not to what or to whom I pray. 
Not to the sun or moon for they are nowhere 
to be seen ; not to the gods for there is no 
temple nor even a statue here ; not to the stars 
for there are too many and some, neglected, 
would be jealous. 

Perhaps it is to the sighing wind I pray; 
perhaps to the shadows and the rolling hills; 
perhaps to the night itself which seems so 
peaceful, all embracing, mysteriously divine. 



*5 



IN THE FOREST 

Down the shadowed forest glade, the nymph 
flashes like a silver arrow from a bow. Her 
golden hair streams out like a flying veil ; her 
eyes are bright with terror; her crimson, sob- 
bing lips are salt with tears. 

Behind her, a dark shadow darting nimbly 
over the silent earth, a satyr speeds, his cheeks 
all flushed with red, his clutching hands 
stretched out. 

— Ho, ho, ho! chuckles an old man, leaning 
upon a staff. Ho, ho, ho ! Why dost thou 
run? Thou will be caught! Thou wilt be 
caught ! 

High overhead in the sunlight, a bird sings 
gloriously to the open sky. On the forest 
path, a squirrel rushes madly over the grass 
and scampers up a mossy trunk. 

A gasp — quick steps upon the earth — a cry. 

— •Ho, ho, ho! chuckles an old man, leaning 
upon a staff. Ho, ho, ho ! Why didst thou 
run ? Why didst thou run ! 



16 



VIRGIN LOVE 

I sit before my window drawing the gleam- 
ing threads from the distaff — and I wait. Yet 
even when I see him I am silent, clasping 
my longing hands over my knees to still their 
trembling. 

Tossing the boyish curls away from his 
brow, bright-eyed and lovely, how can I hope 
that he should think of me? How dare I 
hope that he, so beautiful, should stoop to 
love ? 

His voice thrills in my heart; his accidental 
touch flashes like fire through my veins. And 
then my veiling lashes droop, I bite my lips 
and lay sweet, cooling flowers against my 
cheeks. 

When he looks at me and smiles, I fear 
him. Yet some day, perhaps, he will hold me 
in his arms and then — then I will only love 
him and be very happy. 



17 



DELPHI 

On the wide green slopes of Parnassus 
there is a marble temple, a very holy temple 
in the eyes of men, where a god speaks in a 
mysterious way. 

Purified by the ritual ablutions, clad in 
spotless white and crowned with laurel, a 
young priestess, very pale and very beautiful, 
approaches the dread chasm which opens upon 
the underworld. 

Her flesh quivers at the approaching ecstasy, 
her breast rises and falls in the divine affla- 
tion, her eyes darken with prophecy. How 
frail she is to be the mouthpiece of a god ! 
. . . But at length her limbs relax, her 
head falls forward and, very slowly, she 
begins to speak. 

But I — I love the simple gods of the woods 
and fields; they are nearer, they speak more 
gently, and their voice is the song of birds 
and the murmurings of the night. 



iS 



THE FRIEND 

Surely I dream. It is not possible thou hast 
really gone. It is not possible that I have 
lost thee. 

From the shadows, I saw thee in his arms 
above the flower-strewn threshold. And all 
that night I stood alone under the stars, my 
hand still clasping the charred fragments of 
the torch burned for thy good fortune. 

The distant rumor of the sea murmurs thy 
name ; the silence of the forests is perfumed 
with thy memory. Each well-remembered 
gesture, each fair word, each glance of eyes 
which understood so well . . . 

Thou hast but gone on a long journey, hast 
thou not? And life ebbs quickly, hand in 
hand with death . . . But thou wilt re- 
turn. Before I know the dream is true, surely 
thou wilt return . . . 



19 



LESBOS 

Upon the bosom of this sun-kissed sea, be- 
neath fair skies, caressed by gentle southern 
winds perfumed like enamored sighings, lies 
the Isle of Dreams. 

Its marble cliffs, bright with anemone, fra- 
grant with myrtle, rest like glorious temples 
on the blue waters. On the flowered grass 
among the olive groves or shadowed by the 
pines where lapping waves caress the sandy 
shore, virgins and youths, inspired with 
beauty, walk singing, hand in hand. 

In the bright cities, laughter fills the air, 
mingling with pulsing music and fresh voices. 
From the altars of the sanctuaries, thin fila- 
ments of incense waver out, diffusing through 
the sunlight. 

There Sappho lives to sing of love. There 
young Larichus, white-limbed and beautiful, 
pours from the glittering wine cups crimson 
libations to the gods. And over all, the breath 
of desire floats like a perfumed cloud. 



THE RAGGED CLOAK 

— Release my arm, O insolent, and give 
me back that rose thou hast dared to steal ! 

— I love thee. 

— Thou lovest? — beggar! Then look not 
at me whose love is worth a mina at the least. 
Away, tattered chlamys, seek thy kind! 

— I love thee. 

— Ho, friends! Who wants a beggar for 
a lover? Here is one ready — almost anxious. 
Look at his faded cloak ! Behold this rent 
through which I thrust my hand ! 

Ah! ... Ah! ... Off with thy 
rags, deceiver ! How wicked of thee to cheat 
me so! What! What save st thou? 

— • I scorn thee. 



TO THE APHRODITE 

Thou art the source of all the loves ; truly 
thou art very fair. Yet who could say I am 
not fairer still ? 

Thy rounded limbs are cold like snow while 
mine are yielding and warm, glowing with 
quivering life at a lover's touch. Thy lips 
which seem so beautiful are white and hard, 
while mine are like red poppies, tremulous 
and sweet. No perfumed breath exhales from 
thee, nor canst thou gasp thine ecstasy into a 
silenced ear. 

Yet I adore thee, for thou art immortal and 
divine. In the twilight of the sanctuary, thy 
pure and flawless limbs will glow through the 
eddying incense after my own, so beautiful 
now, have crumbled into dust. Men will look 
up to thee long after remembrance of me has 
passed away, and still thou wilt inflame their 
quickening desire when my frail shade is lost 
among the dead. 



ASHES OF DESIRE 

How soft this couch of thine ! Beneath my 
tingling nudity, its glowing silken covers 
scarcely seem to bear me up . . . Let me 
lie so awhile, laved in the utter silence of the 
flesh. 

Spread out my hair like waves about my 
head ... A moistened tendril clings to 
my weary lips. Draw it away for me, so that 
I need not stir even a finger to complete my 
peace. 

How fair these moments — and how dearly 
bought! . . . Alas! . . . Yet be not 
hurt because I call them dearly bought. Thou 
art a man — thou couldst not understand. Nor 
couldst thou know I love thee more for them 
than for all other things . . . 



23 



PH AON 

Must I woo thee, flower of Lesbian youth, 
fair-skinned and supple, insensible to love, 
disdainful as a god? Must Sappho sing to 
thee and play the man, bringing her sweetest 
lyrics to thy scornful loveliness? 

Among these perfumed gardens where the 
glowing rose and hyacinth breathe out their 
fragrant souls, among the tinkling fountains 
and the olive groves, canst thou not find, 
within thine heart, one spark of love which 
I can sigh into a flame ? 

Alas ! Thy brow is icy cold, thine hand 
all unresponsive to my touch. Thine eyes 
look far away, in pure content of Aphrodite's 
gift. 

Why wilt thou have it so? Perhaps, in 
days to come, when Sappho's cithern sleeps 
and Sappho wanders in the twilight land, 
men will look back to thee and curse thy 
beauty that it stilled her song . . . Ah ! 
Phaon! 



24 



FALSE DAWN 

O friend, I am not She thou seekest. My 
hair is warm and golden, mine eyes are blue; 
like hers, my lips are sweet — thou knowest. 

But in thine ears my voice echoes like a 
voice heard long ago which calls thee still 
across the vast solitudes. The touch of my 
hand is but the shadow of some past caress 
which distant memory recalls to thee. 

Because I too have loved, I know. And I 
have seen her image weaving like a phantom 
through the desire of thine eyes. 

Because I too have loved, O friend, search 
on: I am not She thou seekest. 



^S 



THE ISLE 

How the sea glitters in the sunlight! Far 
out over the flashing waters, seest thou the 
white sail of that speeding boat which almost 
seems to fly above the ripples? 

Here on this pebbled beach, caressed by the 
clear blue waters, where spreading reaches 
from the lapping waves glide up like the 
pleading hands of nereids, the gods are very 
near. 

They say, to this lovely island, mighty Zeus, 
concealed by the semblance of a white bull, 
bore on his back Europa, the peerless virgin, 
the source of his desire. 

It may be at this very spot they came up 
from the waters. Perhaps among the grassy 
dells through which we lately wandered, they 
also loved. Perhaps in this grotto by the 
shore they slept, wearied with love, the virgin 
murmuring through some happy dream, her 
fair head pillowed on a god-like breast. 



26 



THE VOTARESS 

For the beauty thou has given me, O god- 
dess, I thank thee . . . 

I stand in my marbled bath and see, re- 
flected in the green water, the clear glory of 
my body, smooth and glowing beneath the 
caress of my hands. On the streets, I appear 
in my fairest vestments and costliest jewels. 
When the passing men turn to look at me, I 
part my sanguined lips in a warm smile; and 
each month, at the full moon, O goddess, I 
lay at thy feet a mina earned in thy name. 

Yet neither thy love nor the white poppies 
of Persephone bring the forgetfulness I crave. 
Through the long days when I am alone, I 
dream of sunlit meadows and crystal streams 
and, above the noises of the city, the call of 
shepherds' pipes whispers in my ears . . . 

Then I close my door and, weeping, clothe 
myself in a simple linen tunic which my 
lovers never see and which is marked with 
green and red. 



27 



AT THE GAMES 

Well run, Lysippos! Well run, O gleaming 
arrow ! Artemis herself is not one half so 
fleet! 

(By Zeus! nor half so marvelously agile — 
that I swear ! See how the gliding muscles 
of his thighs ripple beneath the skin. Behold 
the slender waist, the broad, smooth bosom 
stirred by the breath of conflict.) 

Ah! The laurel! The laurel to the guide 
of winds ! . . . Ho, Nisos, why limpest 
thou ? Ho, ho ! Thou wert outrun a thou- 
sand times, thou feigner of accidents ! 

(No wonder that, when he shows himself 
on the Agora, even the cheeks of the old 
men grow pale ; no wonder the philosophers 
cease their windy nothings and gaze abashed 
— But they are all fools! . . . Listen, I will 
tell thee a great secret ... It is I he loves! 
It is I he loves ! . . . Ah ! . . . By Zeus ! he is 
coming this way!) 



28 



THE EPICURE 

Go, thou of the golden hair, and bathe thy- 
self in perfumed waters; rub thy body with 
wine and fragrant oils so thy suppled skin 
may glow and glide, softer than silk beneath 
my touch. 

Loose thou thine hair above the smoking 
incense that, being pregnant with the divine 
fragrance, it may delight me as it falls about 
my face, over my lips. 

Then lay upon thy slender nudity this tunic, 
these silken scarves and, over all, this purple 
vestment broidered with fine gold. 

When thou hast done these things — return 
If thou art smiling, warm with desire: if I 
find thee fair: perhaps thou wilt be loved. 



29 



THE ORGY 

— Plunge thy wreath . . . into the 
wine, as I do. Now drink from the blossoms. 
It is delicious. . . . Ho, there! My 
friend is thirsty. I am sure he is thirsty. 
Give him the Cretan wine ; he likes it because 
it is red . . . 

— O lassitude ! . . . Thy lips are like 
a flower at my throat . . . 

— This roasted fowl, I swear, is daintier 
than a beautiful woman. Now I maintain 
that pleasures such as this . . . 

— Let her alone, thou ape ; she is a Lesbian 
. . . What is it to thee? . . . Who 
threw that cup? O shame! It was a rare 
Etruscan glaze! How strangely the frag- 
ments gleam . . . 

— O lovely, glowing limbs ! O skin like 
petals of the rose ! More maddening than all 
wines the fair breath sobbing past thy crim- 
soned lips . . . 

— Gods ! Gods ! I weep. See, my sleeve 
is all wet with tears ! I can drink . . , 
no more ... I can drink . . . 

— O Dionysos, strike the profaner dead ! 



30 



NOCTURNE 

Far away, on an island of the sea, lives a 
woman in a palace of gold. Chains of gold 
are about her waist, and upon her arms rings 
of gold and rubies and stones of beryl. All 
alone she lives, resting by night upon a couch 
of purple and by day upon a throne of ivory. 

They say no one has ever known the warm 
desire of her lips nor, with a trembling hand, 
caressed the pliant splendor of her limbs. 
Strange tales are whispered — she is very fair 
. . . But once each month when the world 
is hushed and the round moon gleams high in 
the heavens, she stands on the terrace of her 
dwelling. Alone in the moonlight, like a sil- 
very image, she slips from her veils and loos- 
ing her hair from its glittering mesh, lets it 
float like a deep shadow into the night . . . 
The warm wind of the south caresses it with 
a thousand furtive hands and, stealing be- 
tween the wavering strands, sweeps on, laden 
with a singular perfume. 

Then love starts from its troubled slumber 
and in the dim temples of Astarte the flowers 
upon the altars bloom afresh. 



3i 



THE SEEKER 

They asked: — What seekest thou? 

And the old man answered: — I seek for 
Truth. 

— I seek for Truth — all other desires are 
long since dead. For many years, in far 
lands, before strange gods, my fruitless quest 
has drawn me on. But in the sanctuaries all 
is vanity, all is lust for temporal power, all 
is profaned by the impious hand of man. 

— Many have asked : What seekest thou ? 
And at my answer some have laughed while 
others have eagerly revealed strange phan- 
toms which they worshiped — satisfied. But in 
the sanctuaries all is vanity, all is lust for 
temporal power, all is profaned by the im- 
pious hand of man. 

Those gathered around him as he spoke, 
laughed also. But one, standing alone, said 
gently: 

— O friend who seekest vainly, not in shad- 
owy temples but among the fields, beneath 
outspreading trees, upon the bosom of the 
waters, lies the occult heart of thy desire. 
For Truth, alone, does not exist. Seek Beauty 
if thou desirest peace. 



32 



ON THE AGORA 

— Seest thou that young man in the white 
linen tunic with a yellow sash? Look at him 
well. 

— I see him. Who is he ? 

— He is a poet. His verses are very 
strange. In them one can hear the sighing 
of the wind, the murmur of waters, the whis- 
perings of the trees . . . They are very 
strange . . . But that is not all. Some 
which I have heard are stranger still . . . 
They say he has seen the nymphs. They say 
he has slept in the forests among the satyrs ; 
that Pan himself once listened from a leafy 
bower while he sang . . . And when he 
plays the syrinx, no one can resist him. 

— He is looking this way. How strangely 
piercing his eyes ! . . . He is very beau- 
tiful. Let us go speak with him . . . 

— I dare not. I dare not. 



33 



SHADOW GOLD 

High on the terrace, the hot night close 
about me, the starry sky pressing down over 
mine eyes, I lie stretched out upon a couch 
awaiting forgetfulness which never comes. 
Crouched on the floor at my feet, a slave girl 
dreams gently, one slender arm thrown out 
across the draperies, a cheek pillowed on a 
hollowed shoulder. 

Instead of the sleep for which I long in 
vain, innumerable visions flit across my mem- 
ory — gleaming visions of beauty with eyes 
that gaze at me and hands that beckon 
. . . I curse them, shadows of joys which 
never were and, one by one, they fade away. 

One vision only never fades as I toss sleep- 
less upon my couch — one vision with golden 
hair where once my hands strayed undenied 
. . . alas ! . . . With soft, warm lips 
where once I drank of immortality — one vision 
with averted head and white limbs fragrant 
with another love than mine . . . 

I stir uneasily and groan. The slave girl 
awakes with a whimpering sigh and, raising 
her head, looks at me with drowsy, question- 
ing eyes. 



34 



PAN 

These are the forests of Arcadia . . . 
Knowest thou why they are so fair, why the 
wind sighs so gently among the trees, why the 
leaves are so green, the earth so warm and 
soft, why the fields are bright with flowers 
and why, from the reeds beside the brooks, 
strange whispers come? 

Knowest thou, too, why the sun shines down 
so bright by day and why, at night, the moon- 
light dreams upon the sleeping world, peo- 
pling the deep shadows of the rocks and trees 
with unknown things? 

Listen and I will tell thee ... A god 
dwells here. 

From far away, echoing over the flowering 
fields, gliding among the trees, hearest thou 
those limpid notes clear as the love-song of a 
bird ? Hearest thou those pure, sweet notes 
blending with earth and sky, voicing the 
subtle spirit of the woods and fields? 

It is the god ... be still and listen. 



35 



CIRCE 

Bathed in the flooding moonlight, thy golden 
palace gleams amidst the whispering pines 
and cypress trees. From the wide open doors, 
the road winds like a pale ribbon across the 
fields to the dark line of the shore. 

Within thy palace, lamps are burning, harps 
and citherns whisper and sigh of love; and 
the laughter of thy guests, the clashing of cups 
and dishes, echo among the trees. 

But thou — thou standest alone, high on the 
terrace. The moonlight covers thee like a 
misty veil through which thy jewels flash like 
living eyes. 

How beautiful, how darkly, deadly beau- 
tiful thou art! How black thine unbound 
hair, how deep thine eyes ! How like a spirit 
of the night as thou standest, with arms out- 
stretched, murmuring strange words above 
the smoking incense, while the hoarse croak- 
ings of the frogs, the shrieks of flitting bats, 
resound like sweetest music in thine ears! 



36 



THE FALLING LEAVES 

When the sun sets all too soon beyond the 
mountains and the western skies are flooded 
with pallid crimson: 

When the trees stand naked and black 
against the afterglow and the evening star 
shines high above the gathering mists of 
twilight: 

When the earth is chilled by sweeping 
winds: when the water of the pools lies dead 
and silent and the last leaves drop, one by 
one, from the trees: 

The naiads forsake the springs, the syrinx 
of the satyrs is heard no more, and the dryads, 
deep in the hearts of the trees, whimper and 
wrap themselves in the shelter of their long, 
dark hair. 

And I — I stand alone in the vast solitude — 
and tremble. 



37 



LETHE 

Through the yellow twilight of the under- 
world, two shadows glided over the asphodel 
in bloom. At the verge of a leaden stream, 
they paused. 

— Here thou drinkest, said One, and all 
remembrance will be washed from thee. It 
is the Law. There is no other way, no other 
path from life to life. 

— I cannot ! Oh, I cannot drink ! . . . 
Why must I lose that which is greater than 
all other things? My heart is filled with 
memories . . . 

— Be brave. In a moment thou wilt not 
even know thou hast forgotten. 

Along the shore, the lotos blooms floated 
like pale flames ; and softly the dark water 
glided onward, hiding the secrets in its 
breast. 



38 



LESBIA 



HYMENEAL 

Hasten, Beloved. The torches flicker in the 
cool night wind and the court pales in the 
moonlight. The guests laugh and sing, the 
flutes shrill and the floor slips with wine 
under the sandals of the dancing-girls. 

Yet thou delayest, watching me from the 
corners of thine eyes, while the slave patiently 
fills thy cup once more . . . Hasten, Be- 
loved, ere I weep and be ashamed. 

Somewhere the flowers wither upon a thres- 
hold — warm roses, slender myrtle and crocus 
from the sunny fields. They too have waited 
so long for thee . . 

Hasten, Beloved. Surely the east is bright- 
ening for the sun. It is the breeze of morn- 
ing that swirls the flaring torches . . . 
Hasten, Beloved, ere I weep and be ashamed. 



4i 



ADVICE 

Impatient, rosy child, if thou art weary of 
thy maidenhood, since no man loves thee, take 
thy youth to the son of Dionysos in the tem- 
ple garden ; and afterward, love where thou 
canst . . . 

When thou art all a woman, thy cheeks will 
not flood with crimson when thou art spoken 
to: thou wilt not stammer and look toward the 
ground. Nor will the longing of thine eyes 
know fear. 

Yet, love is both virgin and voluptuous to 
the desire of men. And when, in times to 
come, thy limbs are warm and bright, when 
even the burning ardor of the goddess is thy 
friend, thou wilt reveal a passionate sem- 
blance of maidenhood to set thy lovers' hearts 
aflame. 



42 



THE TREES 

In the level sun-rays, the hill slopes flare 
with color. The water's mirror reflects the 
glory of the west: at first sheer yellow like 
pale gold; then tinted with crimson; and 
soon, above the twilight, steeped in glowing 
red. 

Slowly the purple shadows deepen among 
the hills. The birds twitter softly in the 
dusk. Shrill voices of the night call to each 
other across the solitudes. 

The slender trees rise black against the 
sky. High among their branches gleams the 
adolescent moon, its flowing light turning the 
fields to silver and the forests to ebony. And 
the soft wind bears from the distant city 
echoes of the songs of festival. 



4T 



SONG 

If I sigh, his eyes fill with tears; if I smile, 
they darken with longing; and when I touch 
him, he turns pale and trembles. But in tor- 
menting him, I grievously torment myself. I 
draw very near. I wait . . . 

When I feel his knotted muscles love surges 
through me and I quiver with desire . . . 
I give myself utterly and close mine eyes. 
My head falls back upon his arm. His eager 
lips unite with mine. 

Then mine arms creep softly over his shoul- 
ders and, because I love him, I hold him 
closely and will not let him go. 



44 



DIONYSIA 

Through the deep shadows of the trees and 
the vine-laden trellises, a maddened crowd 
rushed like an avalanche of furies, brandish- 
ing thyrsi and flaring torches, beating drums 
and cymbals. 

Young men clad like sileni, frenzied with 
wine, darted like flames through the tumult. 
Grown men, crimsoned and crowned with 
bedraggled ivy, danced like satyrs to the 
screaming music. And, on the seething crest, 
rushed a man dragging a young girl who 
stumbled, panting and crazed with fear, her 
chiton, half torn from her glistening body, 
smeared with blood. 

— Io Iacchos ! they cried, flourishing gleam- 
ing kanthari, writhing in ecstasy. They stag- 
gered, leaped, rolled upon the grass, swarmed 
like bees; and then, suddenly dispersing, ran 
shrieking in groups among the trees . . . 



45 



PENUMBRA 

Was it but a few short hours past, Beloved, 
when first thy lips found mine? Now it is 
day; the sun flames in the sky and I am all 
alone. Surely, it was long ago I saw thee 
here. 

All our delights so fleeting and so quickly 
sped ! The hours past seem far away among 
the years of memory . . . Was I too 
easily conquered, loving thee? Didst thou 
desire less than I gave — or more ? 

When the west blushes to receive the sun, 
a light thou knowest will guide thy steps 
through the lengthening shadows. Love 
blooms in the twilight of our dreams, but we 
may not live and dream forever, thou and I. 
And love may not always pass the shadowy 
portals nor dwell beyond the leadened waters 
of oblivion. 



46 



ASTARTE 

Divine Astarte, because I also am a woman, 
I adore thee. With my blood pulsing to the 
song of life, with my body, supple and lan- 
guorous and mine eager soul, I worship thee, 
O Spirit of the World. 

Goddess, when thine hand touches me for 
an instant, I swoon, my flesh quivers and mine 
eyes are blinded. The sun shrouds in a cloak 
of purple ; the moon burns like a crimson disc 
among the stars ; the wide spaces of infinity 
envelop me ; despair and exultation unite 
within my heart. 

Yet for such as I thou reignest, Astarte — 
robed in scarlet and flaming with desire. 
And, outstretched alone upon my couch among 
the shadows, I adore thee — I who also am a 
woman — Eternal Queen of mine own Mys- 
tery. 



47 



THE SHIP 

In the pale shadow of a canopy, I drowse 
through the long hours while the boat slips 
over the flashing sea. The rhythmic murmur 
of the waves steals through my dreams. I 
hear the voice of a sailor in the prow, the 
rippling hurry of water along the sides. 

Beyond the shadow, the deck flares with 
light. The blazing sun of the south hangs 
motionless in the sky. The sultry air ex- 
hales the arid spaces of the desert. 

But with the dusk, a cool breeze blows from 
the sea, the sail bellies, the cordage creaks 
and, before us, the dim forms of islands rise 
through the shadows. 



48 



THE CITY 

Here at the blue sea's verge lies the great 
city, the white walls of its quays and houses 
gleaming in the sunlight, filled with the rumor 
of countless voices, shrill cries, music, the 
ceaseless beating of the waters. 

Bright city, for thee I shall be very famous 
and very wealthy, for I am beautiful. Thou 
knowest well how beautiful I am . . . 

Countless are those who give their love. 
Their teeth shine like pearls born of the sea; 
no passion daunts them; no pain or sorrow 
is too great for them to bear — and smile. But 
I . . . the world shall gasp desire before 
me. 

And I will make thee drunk, O city, per- 
fumed and corrupt; I will make thee drunk 
with love and poems from my crimsoned, vio- 
late lips. 



49 



THE MERCHANT 

These treasures I have gathered for many 
years. And if thou wilt . . . Here are 
mirrors of bronze; and here a silver bracelet, 
heavy with sards from Lydia. It is en- 
chanted, caressing the arm of her that wears 
it, if only she be fair . . . Thou seest! 

Here are perfumes and rare essences in ala- 
baster vials from Corinth and the isle of 
Crete. And here, perfumes no less immortal 
in brown clay vases from Etruria. 

This rose powder from the amorous blooms 
of Mitylene will make thy nails lustrous as 
nacre. And here is purest kohl to shadow 
the flaming languor of thine eyes. 

These glowing silks have come from many 
lands. This is thy color . . . O Isis ! 
How beautiful! . . . The price? Nay, 
take it, and the bracelet also. They would 
be desolate, away from thee. And as my only 
payment, I pray thee wear them once, passing 
my door. 



5o 



THE GARDEN 

Beside me in the shadowy garden of my 
dwelling stands my Well-Beloved, clad in a 
perfumed saffron tunic and shod with gilded 
sandals. His arm rests lightly upon my 
shoulders, his eyes are bright with laughter. 

I move softly beneath the gold-encircled 
arm, and sigh: 

— I love thee. 

— I love thee because I know thee well and 
because thou knowest me. From thy caress 
comes only happiness . . . And when 
mine eyes meet his, he smiles. 

My hair is golden as the sun; mine eyes 
are jewels ; my lips are dew-kissed flowers. 
I know — for many have told me. I stand in 
the star-lit garden of my dwelling and raise 
mine arms and laugh and sigh. And, as the 
great moon rises in the east, a song trembles 
upon my lips — a song of joyous understand- 
ing; of all desire fulfilled. 



5i 



ATROPOS 

— Thine hand . . . What wouldst 
thou? 

— Thee. 

— Me ? ... Man, there is no desire 
in thine eyes ; thinkest thou it is polite to 
jest? 

— Thy price ? 

— Truly? Art thou wealthy? 

— Thy price ! 

— Well, friend, thirty drachmae to thee. 
But first, tell me . . . 

— Where is thy dwelling? 

— How strange thou art! . . . What 
hast thou to do with love? 

— Nothing. 

— Nothing? . . . Ah! . . . 



5- 



THE NEOPHYTE 

Upon the storm-scarred summits of the 
mountains, among the shifting valleys of the 
desert wastes, across the waters' murmuring 
infinity, I called: but the spirits of the hills 
were silent; the voices of the sea made me 
no answer. 

I turned mine eyes to the sapphire gateway 
of the dawn, the flaming sunset, the star- 
jeweled curtains of the night. I tuned my 
voice to the song of birds; I lay as a friend 
among the flowers. 

And then I sought the cold, still gods, half 
luminous in the temple dusks. Their carven 
lips gave forth no word, their eyes gazed 
always beyond immeasured futures, but the 
sign of peace was graven on their brows. 

And the earth awoke, pulsing with life, as 
I laid my heart upon the purpled altars of 
the dead. 



S3 



THE PERFUMES 

Safe within a box of ebony, I store my per- 
fumes, in vases gold and crimson, in vials of 
green, pale as the leaves of springtime. 

There are glowing syrups, laden with the 
souls of a thousand roses ; cool, green liquids 
from the soft blooms of the lotos ; thin, sterile 
drops from strange, dark flowers of the night. 
There is even a perfume which has . . . 
which never knew the flowers. 

But, deep hidden in a secret place, there 
are two vials — the one of iron, sombre and 
cold, the other of purest azure, warm and 
fragile as an unknown thing. And some- 
times, when the world is hushed and dark, I 
bar my doors and . . . later . 
swoon softly in the warm, throbbing silence of 
my dreams. . . . 



54 



IRIS 

Iris, little flute-player, thy rosy mouth 
drooping, thine eyes brimming with tears, 
why dost thou crouch alone against the rough 
wall, thy reeds lying neglected in the dust? 

Are they broken, the wax-tipped friends of 
thy song? Art thou hurt, or hungry, or 
weary of thy life? Has thy loved one flown 
away? . . . 

Listen, child. In my garden are roses and 
a pool where thou canst wash away thy sor- 
row, perfumes which will delight thee and 
golden ribbons to bind the soft crown of thy 
hair. To-night and to-morrow and for many 
days, thou shalt play only when thou wishest 
and dance only Avhen it pleases thee. 

Then, when thou smilest again, I will find 
thee a new Beloved, fairer and kindlier than 
the last; yes, truly — though I drag her to 
thee, shrieking and bewailing, and chain her 
with golden fetters to thy couch. 



55 



PANDEMOS 

I love thee, daughter of Kypris, for thou 
art beautiful and the cool scent of thy flowing 
hair is ravishing. 

But I love also the sister who lives next 
door to thee, and soft-limbed Chrysis who 
plays the flute at thy festivals. Their love, 
like thine, is clear and unafraid. 

Thou quiverest like a cithern string be- 
neath my touch. Thy cheeks blush divinely 
and the farm flower of thy lips writhes in the 
fire of my kiss. . . . 

Yet I will not love thee always, nor thy 
sister, nor Chrysis who babbles youth and 
happiness through the doubled reeds. For it 
is not thee I love; it is thy beauty only as, 
for an instant, I behold in thee the mystery 
of all the world. 



56 



THE STRANGER 

Thou seekest pleasure, stranger? Lo, I 
am queen of pleasure; I am ruler of all de- 
lights. With one glance of mine eyes, I can 
sway thee like the stricken palm. 

If thou hast sorrow, I can drive it from 
thee; if thou art happy, I can double thine 
ecstasy. I can make thee long for death. 
. . . Girl, bring wine and cakes — quickly ! 

This is my house. Thou seest — I have 
many friends. I am rich; but I think nothing 
of money. I love where it pleases me, and I 
am pleased with thee. Give thy cloak to the 
slave. . . . Pardon, thou hast dropped thy 
purse. . . . 



57 



THE GIFTS 

I have given thee a saffron vestment rich 
with gold, a circlet heavy with rubies for 
thine arm, a gleaming sapphire for thy brow 
— and thou hast smiled upon me. 

I have given thee a necklace of rosy pearls 
to hang about thy neck, sandals of gilded 
leather for thy slender feet, rare oils and 
heavy perfumes — and thou hast loved me. 

Thou hast given me thyself and all thy 
love: mad, scarlet nights, mornings of pale 
delight and languorous noondays — and thou 
hast been my slave. 

Yet, if I had not crowned thee with jewels; 
if I had not set thy path aflame with rubies, 
no less I would have loved thee. And yet 
. . . and yet, I think, thou never wouldst 
have known . . . 



58 



LOST LOVE 

So wanton at play thou wert, dishevelled 
with love ; now thou playest with another, 
singing low the joys I first awoke in thee. 
Thou wert so gentle and voluptuous; now 
thou seekest another couch, and mine, still 
vaguely fragrant of thy limbs, is cold. 

Does thy new friend stand, foot-weary, be- 
fore thy door, sighing of desire ? Does he 
bear thee, as to a shrine, garlands of the 
brightest roses to languish about thy love ? 
Does he search out for thee the choicest wines 
to warm the all-desired blossoms of thy lips? 
. . . Though he protest his love, some day 
he will leave thee for another . . . 

O faithless one, return to* me. O child of 
Aphrodite, do not leave me desolate, lest 
I . . . forget thee . . . which would 
be worst of all. 



59 



THE SHADOW 

Thou seest, stranger, she has gone ; and 
we know not whither. This gaping doorway, 
these empty walls darkened with the fumes 
of many lamps, this desolate garden: these 
are her heritage. 

Through the nights, long since, we heard 
her weeping. And then, one morning, she 
was gone. This necklace upon my breast 
was hers. Little Iris sleeps now upon her 
abandoned couch. 

Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps she was only 
weary of this place. Perhaps she wished, 
suddenly ... to forget. . . But she 
has gone as thou seest, O silent stranger, and, 
in all the world, we know not whither. 



60 



THE WINE 

Slaves, bring more wine — bright scarlet 
wine of Syracuse and Cyprian wine which 
gleams like yellow gold . . . This gross 
food sickens me. Take it away! Bring 
wine, and the large goblets. 

Who are these women ? They have come 
to dance? I wonder . . . But no — send 
them away. When women dance, I dream of 
terrible things . . . Ah! at last, laggard! 
Pour quickly! 

Now I forget, O crimson flood ! I have 
bought thee like a courtesan, but thine impas- 
sioned touch . . . upon my lips . . . 
is cold. I will be faithful to thee until death. 
For I am very faithful — true, O Dionysos ! 
. . . Come, friend, drink also: and when 
thou art weary, sleep ; and pray for . . . 
what thou wishest ... in thy dreams. 



61 



NOCTURNE 

Deep with mystery is the night, when the 
round moon sails high the seas above the 
earth and subtle spirits of the dark swirl 
through the narrow ways. 

The placid river shines like a polished 
mirror. All the world is hushed save for the 
rustle of a bird among the rushes at the 
water's edge or the distant chanting of priests 
within the ghostly temples. 

Somewhere in the city, a dog howls ; where 
a lamp still casts a flickering glow from a 
window, a woman's laughter tinkles; from 
the house tops, the plash of falling water 
mingles with a low song of gladness . . . 

But when the moon sinks toward the west, 
a warm wind blows from the desert, the 
leaves of the palms rustle and whisper among 
themselves, and a long, vague sigh sweeps 
out to meet the rising sun. 



62 



ISIS 

Thine eyes gaze into the vague distances 
and thy lips curve in a proud smile. Thine 
hands are motionless and cold, thy slender 
limbs are relaxed and thy feet are united upon 
the stones. 

Mother of all Nature: Goddess, fecund, in- 
exhaustible: what is thy mystery we know 
not — we who also love ? Why dost thou al- 
ways smile, even when quite alone in the 
dim sanctuary? 

Thy voice, kept for the ears of gods, must 
be very sweet. The ardor of thy limbs must 
be joyous to thy lord . . . 

Dreamest thou, formless and beyond all 
things, drifting through the eternal silence of 
thy love ? ... Or hast thovf never truly 
known of life and desire and fear — thou who 
speakest not nor communest, save in the shad- 
owy visions of thine own soul ? 



6l 



VIGIL 

Through the echoing silences of the night, 
beneath the star-paled arches of the sky, I 
lifted up my voice and sang of love. 

I sang of pain, of happiness and the long 
hours of waiting; of revelation and eternal 
mystery; hot longing, quivering silence and 
a lustral calm. I sang and smiled and wept, 
my voice floating above the slumbering city, 
mine eyes turned toward the shadowy desert. 

Alone, I sang . . . No voice replied, 
whispering through the dusk, no heart 
warmed in a swift response, no lips sought 
mine to drink their song. Only the soft caress 
of the night wind touched me for an instant 
and then passed on toward the sandy wastes. 



64 



COPPER AND GOLD 

Browned by the desert sun and the swift 
wind, lithe and strong, thine eyes aflame with 
conquest, thou seekest me out; thou layest 
thine hand upon me. 

Beside thee, I pale; and yet, because I am 
a woman, I can bear thine hand upon me and 
thy kiss upon my lips. I have become precious 
as a xare jewel because thou lovest me; and 
strong because I have looked upon thee and I 
have known thee, O my Well-Beloved. 

And I will love thee not only in the night 
when the soft air breathes of the slumbering 
flowers, but also in the flaring mid-day when 
the light of thine eyes blinds me and the 
world throbs in the glory of the sun. 



65 



LIST IN BELLES-LETTRES 

Published by 

NICHOLAS L. BROWN 

PHILADELPHIA, PA. 



THE AWAKENING OF SPRING. By Frank Wedekind. 
A tragedy of childhood dealing with the sex question in 
its relationship to the education of children. Fifth edition. 
Cloth, gilt top, deckle edge, $1.25 net. By mail, $1.35. "Here 
is a play which on its production caused a sensation in Ger- 
many, and can without exaggeration be described as remark- 
able. These studies of adolescence are as impressive as they 
are unique." — The Athenceum, London. 

THE CREDITOR. By August Strindberg. Translated from 
the Swedish by Francis J. Ziegler. A psychological study 
of the divorce question by one of the greatest Scandinavian 
dramatists. Cloth, 75 cents net; postage, 8 cents. "Fordring- 
sagare" was produced for the first time in 1889, when it was 
given at Copenhagen as a substitute for "Froken Julie," the 
performance of which was forbidden by the censor. Four 
years later Berlin audiences made its acquaintance, since when 
it has remained the most popular of Strindberg's plays in 
Germany. 

TWO DEATHS IN THE BRONX. By Donald Evans. Ebony 
grey boards, antique wove paper. $1.00 net. Mr. Evans has 
again sounded a new note in poetry, and possibly an important 
one. The modernism, mistakenly called Futurism, that in 
the "Sonnets from the Patagonian" sometimes merely amazed, 
in the present instance, stimulates and satisfies. The volume is 
a series of pitiless photographs of profligate men and women 
who fritter away life, seeking new pleasures, new sensations. 
It is a gallery of incurable poseurs. Mr. Evans's method of 
approach is irony, and each poem is a vial of acid. 

A DILEMMA. By Leonidas Andreiyeff. Translated from the 
Russian by John Cournos. Cloth, 75 cents net; postage, 7 
cents. A remarkable analysis of mental subtleties as experi- 
enced by a man who is uncertain as to whether or not he is 
insane. A story that is Poe-like in its intensity and full of 



grim humor. "One of the most interesting literary studies of 
crime since Dostoieffsky's Crime and Punishment." — Chicago 
Evening Post. 

DISCORDS. A volume of poems by Donald Evans. With the 
publication of this volume must end the oft-repeated complaint 
that real English poetry is no longer being written. These 
poems have no sermon to preach, no evils to arraign, no new 
scheme of things to propound. They are poems written in the 
sincere joy of artistic creation, and they possess a compelling 
music and an abiding beauty. This poet, who is singing only 
for the pleasure of singing, in his sixty or more poems that 
make up the volume, offers vivid glimpses of the stress and 
strain of modern life. He thinks frankly, and his utterances 
are full of free sweep and a passionate intensity. Dark green 
boards, $1.00 net; postage, 8 cents. 

SWAN WHITE. By August _ Strindberg. A Fairy Drama, 
translated by Francis J. Ziegler. Second edition. Printed 
on deckle edge paper and attractively bound in cloth, 75 cents 
net; postage, 8 cents. "A poetic idyl, which is charming in its 
sweet purity, delightful in its optimism, elusive in its complete 
symbolism, but wholesome in its message that pure love can 
conquer evil. So out of the cold North, out of the mouth of 
the world's most terrible misogynist, comes a strange mes- 
sage — one which is as sweet as it is unexpected. And August 
Strindberg, the enemy of love, sings that pure love is all pow- 
erful and all-conquering." — Springfield, Mass., Republican. 

THE WOMAN AND THE FIDDLER. A play in three acts 
by Arne Norrevang. Translated from the Norwegian by Mrs. 
Herman Sandby. Cloth, uncut edges, 75 cents net. By mail, 
83 cents. This play is based upon one of the legends of the fid- 
dlers who used to go about from valley to valley, playing for 
the peasants at their festivities. 

FOR A NIGHT. A novelette by Emile Zola. Translated from 
the French by Alison M. Lederer. 75 cents net. Postage, 10 
cents. The imaginative realism, the poetic psychology, of this 
story of the abnormal Therese who kills her lover; of the 
simple minded Julien who becomes an accessory after .the fact 
for love of her, and finally "let himself fall" into the river, 
having first dropped the body of Colombel over, are gripping and 
intense. The masochism at the basis of the love of Therese 
and Colombel, resulting in the murder, is depicted with won- 



derful art and yet without any coarseness. The author does 
not moralize, but with relentless pen delineates that madness of 
Therese sown in her soul from birth — a madness which her 
convent training rather enhances than abrogates. The book 
contains two other typical Zola stories : "The Maid of the 
Dawber" and "Complements" — two delightful, crisp bits of 
literature. 

FROKEN JULIE (Countess Julia). A Naturalistic Tragedy, 
by August Strindberg. Cloth, 75 cents net; by mail, 83 cents. 
Says Mr. James Huneker: It is an emotional bombshell. The 
social world seems topsy-turvied after a first reading. After 
a second, while the gripping power does not relax, one realizes 
the writer's deep, almost abysmal knowledge of human nature. 

. . . Passion there is, and a horrible atmosphere of reality. 
Everything is brought about naturally, inevitably. Be it under- 
stood, Strindberg is never pornographic, nor does he show a 
naked soul merely to afford a charming diversion, which is the 
practice of some French dramatists. That kitchen — fancy a 
kitchen as a battlefield of souls ! — with its good-hearted and 
pious cook, the impudent scoundrel of a valet eager for 
revenge on his superiors, and the hallucinated girl from above 
stairs — it is a tiny epic of hatred, of class against mass. 

THE LIVING CORPSE (Zhivoi Trup). A Drama in six Acts 
and twelve Tableaux, by Count Leo N. Tolstoi. Second edi- 
tion. Cloth, 75 cents net ; by mail, 83 cents. There is no ques- 
tion as to the tremendous power and simple impressiveness of 
this posthumous work, which is the literary sensation of the day 
not alone in Russia, but throughout Europe. As a protest 
against certain marriage and divorce laws, the absurdity of 
which is portrayed with a satiric pen, "The Living Corpse" is 
a most effective document. 

SUCH IS LIFE. A Play in five Acts, by Frank Wedekind, 
Author of "The Awakening of Spring,'' etc. Second edition. 
Cloth, gilt top, raw edge, net, $1.25; by mail, $1.34. Whatever 
Wedekind's theme may be, it is always sure to be treated in a 
strikingly original fashion. In "Such is Life" it is Regality 
and Kingship. Though the locale is mediaeval Italy, the scene 
might as well have been laid at the present day, but this was, 
perhaps, too dangerous. While satire runs as an undercurrent 
throughout, the play is primarily one of tense dramatic situa- 
tions and a clearly outlined plot, full of color and action. Por- 



tions of the play are written in verse — verse that runs with 
almost Elizabethan fire and impetuosity. 

FAIRY QUACKENBOSE. By Arthur K. Stern. A Fairy Tale 
with Modern Improvements, Illustrated by Iredell. A book 
for sheer joy and enjoyment is this tale of modern Fairyland. 
Its whimsicalities, its nonsense, its jingling rhymes will amuse 
children of all ages, if they be six or sixty, and its simple, 
direct and appealing language make it particularly pleasant 
reading. A fairy tale no parent or teacher can afford to be 
without. Boards. Net, 75 cents. By Mail, 84 cents. 

PLAYS AND SONNETS. By Ernest Lacy, 2 volumes, printed 
on hand made paper and illustrated with 7 etchings, bound 
in Vellum de Luxe cloth, gilt top, deckle edge. Price per vol- 
ume, $1.75. Sold separately or together. Volume 1 : THE 
BARD OF MARY REDCLIFFE, a play in 5 Acts, 
xix + 205 pp. Volume II : RINALDO, THE DOCTOR OF 
FLORENCE, a play in 5 Acts. CHATTERTON, a one-Act 
play. SONNETS, vii + 237 pp. These three plays and sixty 
odd sonnets are written with lucidity and emotion. A human 
heart throbs through them. The plays have won the approba- 
tion of the greatest living authority and historian of the Eng- 
lish drama, Prof. A. W. Ward, of Cambridge. The Sonnets 
have evoked a fine critical eulogy from that greatest student 
of the Eliabethan sonnets (including Shakespeare's) — Sir Sid- 
ney Lee. Enthusiastic critics have pronounced both "The Bard 
of Mary Redcliffe" and "Rinaldo" as the greatest plays ever 
written in America. 

EPHEMERA. Greek Prose Poems. By Mitchell S. Buck. 
Printed throughout on Japan Vellum paper from eight point 
Old Style Caslon type, and bound in half vellum, Fabriano 
sides, paper label on the back in two colors ; gilt top, deckle 
edge. Edition limited to 750 copies. Price, $2.25 net. The 
two series of antique sketches contained in this volume show 
the art of rhythmic prose, so successfully used in French by 
such writers as Baudelaire and Pierre Louys, presented directly 
in the English language. The medium selected is handled 
freely and delicately, securing its effects without obvious effort 
or strain. And the fifty "pastels" form a collection heretofore 
unknown to American poetry. The impressions one receives 
are not only delightful, but also not unfaithful to the fascinat- 
ing age they limn. A keep perception of beauty has not dis- 
torted a necessary ~ faithfulness to subject-matter; and those 



who still admire the flowers of past ages will find them here, 
still fragrant. 

DANTE AND OTHER WANING CLASSICS. By Albert 
Mordell, cloth, $1.00 net. GEORGE BRANDES, the world's 
greatest living literary critic, wrote to the author after read- 
ing this book: "If I originally had any scruples against your 
fundamental idea, these scruples completely ceased when I 
thoroughly examined the execution of your plan. Now I am 
of your opinion. It is necessary to say once for all that these 
books of past times no longer correspond to our intellectual 
needs. You have had the courage to say it frankly. Even if 
they attack it at present, in the future, and not at all in a 
distant future, they will be grateful to you for having said it." 

MODERN AUTHORS' SERIES. 

Under this title appear from time to time short stories and 
dramas, chiefly translations from the works of modern European 
authors, each containing from 32 to 64 pages. Printed in large, 
clear type and tastefully bound in gray boards with paper label. 
Each 35 cents net; by mail, 40 cents. Now ready: 

SILENCE. From the Russian of Leonidas Andreiyeff. Second 
edition. An unusual short story that reads like a poem in 
prose by the leading exponent of the new Russian school of 
novelists. 

MOTHERLOVE. From the Swedish of August Strindberg. 
Second edition. An example of Strindberg's power as analyst 
of human nature. 

A RED FLOWER. By Vsevolod Garshin. A powerful short 
story by one of Russia's popular authors, unknown as yet to 
the English-speaking public. 

THE GRISLEY SUITOR. From the German of Frank Wede- 
kind. An excellent story of the De-Maupassant type. 

RABBI EZRA AND THE VICTIM. By Frank Wedekind. 
Two sketches characteristic of the pen of this noted German 
author. 

Other volumes in Preparation. 

Lists and Circulars sent free to any address. 



EPHEMERJ 

Greek 
Prose 
Poems 

by 
M.S. Bud 

1916 



